Dream of a Destiny
by ThatBlueScreenGuy
Summary: Ever since he was a boy, he would dream of a destiny he never thought he'd realize. He would live a life that never fit him, thinking it was all he was able to. Then came the day that a creature so different, yet so familiar attacked his home, and his destiny, long since thought impossible to him, finally came to fruition.


Ever since I was a child, I would always dream of flying.

It would be the same dream over and over again, never changing, but somehow still just as exhilarating and joyous as the first time I ever dreamed it, despite how many times I've seen it.

I would always start near the top of a mountain, right at the peak where the earth met the sky in a jagged caress. I would look across the great blue expanse of the open air before me, taking in the shining sun and the wispy white clouds that traced and flowed with the winds. It always looked so beautiful and inviting, just staring out into the sky from up high like that.

My eyes would then trace across the ground, taking in the forests of massive green trees and the plains of rock and tall grass where game of all sizes frollocked. The wind would blow through the trees, the gentle rustle that leaves always give off when blown by the wind floating listlessly through the air. Sometimes, if I looked hard enough, I could even see mammoths and their Giant caretakers trodding along their path as they are often wont to do.

Then I would close my eyes and take a deep breath of clean, crisp air, a stark contrast to the smoky air full of scents that I was used to smelling living in Whiterun.

The sharp rocks would occasionally dig into my feet, but despite how sharp they were, they would never hurt me. Whatever flying creature I was, it was a hardy thing, full of power and resilience.

My eyes would then snap open once more and they would immediately trace along the coast of the horizon and lock onto a series of structures, a little hamlet, I would see in the distance.

Some powerful sensation would fill my chest, some alien thought or feeling that I had no way of identifying, and every fiber of my being would demand that I take flight and ride the winds and the sky straight towards the distant village.

And I would. I would push powerfully off the rocky mountain with strong legs, wings flapping at my sides until they caught a strong wind that pushed me in the direction of the little town.

I would fly straight for a few seconds, until I was instinctively sure that there was nothing large immediately beneath me, and then I would hold all my limbs taut and close to my body, going in for a dive, face first toward the nearby forest that stood between me and the village.

The wind would whip past me loudly, and the feeling of pure thrill would course through me as I dove. Never have I ever felt such a sensation in the waking world- nor will I, I know. But somehow, in that dream, during that fall, the wind screaming past my ears and flying past my face and trying to catch under my wings in a way that I knew would feel absolutely sublime to ride, I knew that flying was what I was meant to do.

During the waking hours, I helped at a smith's shop, forging simple weapons as I practiced a craft I had no real interest in. It didn't suit me, didn't _fit_ me, yet it was expected of me by all those around me. I was to be a smith one day, to take over the shop from my father, to make swords and arms and armor until my hands give out and I could no longer hold a hammer. Then I was expected to run the store and do numbers all day, while some youth took on the role of master smith. It was expected for this youth to be _my_ son, another expectation placed on me, and that this son of mine would have all the same expectations I had in my youth placed on him.

I was expected to take part in a cycle of expectations and obligation that I was born into, that I have no say over, and that I truly want nothing to do with. It doesn't suit me.

Not like flying in my dreams did.

When I flew in my dreams, every inch of my soul screamed at me, pleaded at me, that this was my purpose in life. This act- this thing I had never done before, nor would I ever- was what I was truly meant to do, what I was truly _born_ to do. It called out to something primal and proud in my soul, and it made me yearn for days that had never happened and would never come to pass.

And then my dream self would spread his wings and straighten out of the dive, and as the winds caressed my wings and carried me forward to this little village, the only word that can describe the feeling that courses over my entire body would be exaltation.

The wind would pass over me, and more joy and freedom would rush through me as I drew ever nearer to the village in the ever-shortening distance. My wings would pump and lift me and my spirits ever higher and higher as I came nearer and nearer.

When I would get close enough to the village, I would be able to see the little peoples of the town, all scurrying along the ground as they went about their mundane lives, completely unaware of the simple and all-encompassing elation that they were missing out on because of their utter lack of wings and the desire to trace the skies.

Then, as I finally flew over the village itself, something would well in my chest. Another completely alien feeling that I could not at all put to words if I tried, and I would let out a fierce roar, something loud and ever present and worthy of a creature as noble and mighty as I.

And then at the end of the dream, just before I would always wake up, there would be fire.

Then my eyes would open to the sight of the wooden ceiling and rafters of my room above my father's shop, the distant sounds of metal clanging against metal resonating through the walls from the forge outside as my father's assistant got to work for the day.

There would be no rocky mountain beneath my feet, no leave rustling in the wind, no air lifting my wings, no joy and happiness. All of that was gone.

All that was left was a life that wasn't mine.


End file.
